Ever So Small 1

 For story with images see PDF below.

“There is no way that’s Josh. Come on.”

“I assure you. That’s Josh. He looks hot, right?”

“That has to be your sister. She looks just like you.”

“Nope. That’s the new and improved Josh. How about that rack?”

I looked at the picture again. There was Madge in her leather jacket and jeans standing next to a girl with a nearly identical face to hers. The girl had a pretty smile, sparkling eyes. She wore a short pink dress and had one hand resting on a baby carriage. And, yes, she had a great rack. Madge wanted me to believe this was her husband, Josh? “This is such bullshit.”

“I swear. She is Josh, and he does look just like me now-- other than he has much bigger tits. Oh, and his voice. He sounds just like me now, too.”

“Bullcrap.”

“I’m not lying. Do you still have his number from back when you two were dating?”

“I… well, I might.”

“Call him.”

“What the hell is this all about? Did Josh put you up to it?”

“Call,” Madge said, a superior smirk on her face. “Ask him.”

I decided to play along. Pulling out my phone, I found Josh’s old number. The phone rang.

“Hi!” A woman answered, or at least what sounded like a woman. In fact, she sounded like Madge, but if Madge had a more breezy, feminine personality. “Rene?”

“Hi. Yeah,” I said. “This is Rene. I was looking for Josh?”

“This is me,” the girl said. “I know my voice probably sounds a little different-- ha ha-- but it’s me. Omigod. So, what’s up, girl? How ya been?”

There was no way this person on the other line was a man, let alone Josh. Not only did she have a voice that resided in the female register, but she spoke in the sing song cadences of a VSCO girl. I flipped Madge off and rolled my eyes. “Who is this, really?”

“It’s me,” she said with a giggle. “I swear.”

I shook my head. “Okay. Bye now.”

I was about to hang up when Madge took the phone. “Hey, Josh,” she said. “Just so Rene can get over her rude doubting Thomasina phase, I give you permission to go ahead and use your old voice for a sec. No. Yeah. I’m sure.” She listened for a second, then grew angry. ‘I don’t care if it’s embarrassing for you. Just shut the hell up and do what I say.” She handed the phone back, one eyebrowed raised, that arrogant smirk still plastered on her face. I was seriously confused. What was the point of this weird game?

“Hey,” I said.

“Yeah. It’s totally me,” I heard Josh say now in his old, deep, masculine voice.

“As if I couldn’t figure out you just took the phone from whoever.”  What happened next shocked me and shook me. The person I was talking to alternated between voices, one minute sounding like Josh, the next sounding like Madge’s airhead little sister.

“No, it really is me, and I go by Josie now.”

I looked at Madge, starting to believe the impossible. Before I could say anything else, I heard a baby start to cry in the background on the phone. “I have to go,” Josh said, back in his feminine register. “Time to feed the baby. Look, we should get coffee some day and catch up. Buh-bye.”

“And?”

“He hung up. Said he had to feed the baby.”

Madge’s smirk grew even bigger until it grew into a smile, but a predatory smile like a shark that had just swallowed a school of grouper. She made a cupping gesture under her chest. “He’s nursing our baby,” she said. “In fact, while he was fairly useless as a husband, he makes a wonderful mother.”

“You’re telling me Josh not only has breasts, but he’s making milk and nursing your baby?”

“Not just our baby. He’s nursing four other ones during the day while their mothers are at work. He’s been blessed, let’s say, with major mammaries. He can make some serious milk.”

I snorted. This was all so insane. So absurd. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I don’t understand. Is this some kind of joke?”

I left Rene to mull it over. I couldn’t blame her for her incredulity. I probably wouldn’t believe Josh was a blonde with big tits now who spent his days on the mommy track if I hadn’t been the one to make it happen. And no, it wasn’t a joke. Josie was my greatest achievement. I was proud of her, and I loved to show her off. She was my masterpiece, a walking seminar on feminine perfection. 

It all started with Powder Puff Football. That’s what triggered me.

My high school, which had an unusual mascot to begin with as we were called the Chimeras, did a powderpuff football game. It’s a kind of role-swapping day where the girls put on all the gear and play football while the boys put on skirts and become the cheerleaders. It’s kind of gone out of favor these days, but my school still did it along with Sadie Hawkins dances and other things a lot of people think of as retro and sexist.

 I don’t know. I just—there was something about seeing a guy with shaved legs in a little pleated skirt, a pretty, soft cheerleader sweater. The boys put on makeup, their lips glossy and red. They wore long wigs with bows tied in their hair. It was a way, ironically, for them to demonstrate they were not sissies, because they were not afraid to dress up and play the part. The prettiest boy, it turned out, was Michael Wills.

I kind of had a crush on Michael Wills, and seeing him with smokey eyeshadow, his lashes dripping with mascara, lips fire engine red and wearing a retro rockabilly wig right out of a John Waters movie, the bangs brushing across the tops of his eyebrows, drove me wild. The top of his sweater swelled with round little hills that looked like he had breasts. I think he must have borrowed a bra and stuffed it, but whatever the case he had a fetching bust line that made my throat dry. As if all that wasn’t enough, as I was watching him while pretending not to be watching him, he struck a very feminine pose with his legs together, a hip thrown out to the side and his hands bent at the wrists. Putting on a surprisingly good falsetto, he sang out, “Omigod. I’m an airhead”

I’d never been so turned on by a guy in my life, and I went home that night and dreamt of him and I making out, but in my dream he had a pair of real and perky little breasts, the squeaky voice of a cheer girl. From then on, whenever I saw him on campus dressed in boy clothes, I felt he looked so dull, so diminished, nothing at all like the bright, pretty thing he’d been for that one, glorious day.

I would ache with desire all day to run home and imagine him as the perfect girl. I used to draw and do watercolors, and I sketched and painted him all girled up, reveling in the girl he could have been.

At the same time, I was disturbed by my fantasies where he had breasts and spoke in the voice of a girl. It was not something I’d ever seen in a movie or on TV, and it made me feel like I was WEIRD. As a teenager, the last thing I wanted to be was WEIRD, so I hid what I deemed to be a perverted desire for years. The powder puff vibe was this whole jokey – Haha guys and girls swapping places? Haha. It was played off as ridiculous. If any of the other girls got turned on by it, they weren’t saying, so I just kept that part of myself secret. Oh, I occasionally indulged, but in safe ways. Maybe I’d run a guy’s picture through SWAPAPP to see what he’d look like in makeup, or as a girl. Lots of people were doing it, and I was careful to hide how much it turned me on.

Overtime, though I tried to fight it, the fantasies came back. I would imagine my boyfriends with breasts, talking like girls with soft voices. I would often fantasize about my them in dresses, makeup. I would masturbate imagining my boyfriend brushing blush onto his cheeks with a camel brush or putting on his mascara. Once or twice while we were shopping, I asked the guy I was with to hold my purse—girls do it all the time, but I wondered if others then imagined him in a dress and heels, my nipples getting hard at the sight of my boyfriend with a purse, wishing he would carry one all the time.

When I met Josh, I’d been living in this closet for years and overcompensating by being overly feminine in a lot of ways. It was an act, and one intended to disguise my desire to be with a guy who was the femme, while I got to play the role usually played by the man.

Then, it all changed.

We’d gone out and the whole night I was so horny to see Josh in a bra. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and all night at the club I kept imagining him wearing a bra under his shirt. I pictured the straps over his shoulders, lace cups against his chest. I shivered as I thought of him all hooked up.

When we got home, I decided to see if I could tease him into putting on a bra for real. This was a big step for me. Remember, I thought this part of me, the part that wanted to see a guy play the girl, was weird, wrong, part of some curse. I liked Josh at least some, and I wondered if I even suggested he put on a bra if that would be the end of us. I really didn’t feel like getting back out there on the dating apps, so I didn’t want to mess it up with him, but I also needed to see him put on my clothes.

I kissed him, grabbed his dick and gave it a squeeze. Kissed some more. He was horny as hell and started to unbutton my shirt, but he was drunk, fumbling with the buttons, awkward like a 12-year-old boy. I didn’t have to fake losing interest. I pushed him away and got up. “Whaat?” He said, speech slurred.

“I’m just not in the mood,” I said my voice cold, annoyed.

I went to my dressing table pulled out some wipes and started to clean off my makeup. This was usually a sign that the night was over, that any chance at sex was done. I heard Josh groan. “You’re killing me.”

I pretended not to hear him, but now slipped out of my shirt, letting it slide off my shoulders and fall to the floor. I sat there in my bra, cleaning my face, and I saw him seeing me in the mirror. For a moment, he looked like he was going to give up, and I was about to totally hate him for being such a quitter, but then he said, “come on back to bed. I need you.”

He did need me. I could hear it in his voice. I pretended to think about it, then glared at him in the mirror. “You have to earn it.”

He sat up. I could practically see him wagging his tail. “Seriously? How?”

“Come over here. Pull up a chair.”

He got up and came over, pulling a chair up.

I reached back and unhooked my bra, let it slip from my shoulders in the same seductive way I had slipped out of my shirt. His eyes went right to my naked breasts. My nipples were hard, and I’m sure he thought that was for him, but it was really for what I was hoping to do to him. Instead of letting my bra fall to the ground, I caught one of the straps with my index finger and then held it towards him.

He looked at me confused, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Put it on,” I said in the breathy, little girl voice I knew drove him nuts.

He pulled back. “What?”

“Put it on,” I repeated, smiling. “It’ll be fun.”

“Come on,” he said, recoiling. “I’m not into that. Wait, are you into that?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I leaned forward and grabbed his dick again, this time squeezing while I gently caressed his cheek with the soft inner cup of my bra. ‘I promise you the best sex of your life.”

This time it was his turn to not answer, but he took the bra from me, held it by the shoulder straps, looking at it with a doofy, confused look on his face. “How do I…?”

“Let me help you,” I said, glad he’d asked, loving how helpless he seemed all of a sudden in the face of a bra. I slipped the bra over his shoulders, hooked it in the back.  The sight of him harnessed in that most female of garments made me wet as hell, the sight of those delicate little straps across his shoulders, the lace trim against his skin.

“Okay. Sex,” he said, but I shook my head.

“Not yet.”

Once he’d gotten over that hump, the rest was easy, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls as we filled the cups with water balloons, giving him a massive bustline. He shook his chest side to side like a stripper, laughing, and then I had him put on a crop top to further the illusion he actually had D cups and not just a bra stuffed with balloons. I had him sit down as I did his face—eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, blush. More giggling. Clip on earrings. I would love to have gotten him into a pair of lacey little panties, but instead I had him put on a pair of my girl boxers. I was worried, despite as far as he’d gone, that panties might be a bridge too far for him. Still, though there wasn’t much difference between boy and girl boxers, just the fact he was now encased in my underwear was delicious. During this whole process I got more and more horny. I could smell myself, all salty and sweet. I had soaked through my own panties and was smoldering, my cheeks flush, my body trembling. I didn’t want him to fuck me. I wanted to fuck him. There was more role-playing to do, more ways I needed to ease him onto his hands and knees before I strapped on a dildo.

I handed him a glass of wine. “Girls drink wine,” I said. “And you’re a girl now.”

Josh laughed, blushed, and already his mannerisms seemed more feminine, as if the dressing up we’d done had made him more of a girl, less of a man. “If I’m a girl, what’s my name?” He started to think about it, but I had an answer.

“Josie,” I said, without hesitation. In many of my fantasies, that was the name I’d given him. I loved to picture him dressed up like Josie from Josie and the Pussycats.

“I’m Josie,” he said, putting on an exaggerated feminine walk, pretending to brush back his hair. “I’m so into social media.” He put on a dumb, airhead accent, vocal fry. I was so wet I could have put out a forest fire.

Once Josh had camped it up a little, we kissed and caressed each other. Josh forgot all about the playing a girl thing, reverting to basic man. I let him fuck me, and we did it traditional style, me on my back, but it was all so different. I watched the way his fake breasts bounced as he thrust into me, the way his lipstick glistened in the lamplight. When he was done, we rested for a bit, caught our breath, and then I said, “my turn.”

He thought I meant oral sex, but I got up and went to my dresser, pulled out my strap on and held it up, smiling, blushing, hopeful. I had shown him so much of who I really was, but a lot of that had been more about what I wanted for him. Revealing this part of me felt more vulnerable, and I desperately wanted him to be okay with it.

He wasn’t.

“Nope,” he said, staring at the dildo as if it were a loaded gun. “Not for me.”

I didn’t push it. I was disappointed, of course, and wondered if I should just move out, maybe move to another city. Would he tell all of our friends? Would all of them find out I had a strap on? Did that make me weird? Was I a freak?

Josh passed out still wearing the bra. I thought about doing him anyway. I wanted to so badly, but no. That would be wrong. Instead, I lay on the bed next to him and watched his breasts rise and fall with each breath, and I found myself imagining him with his own rack—real ones—and how fucking hot it would be to see him hauling around his own big, fat set of tits.

I slipped my fingers between my legs and started to do myself, looking at him, imagining him putting on his makeup, brushing his hair, wearing a tight little black dress and high heels, and as I climaxed and came I imagined him with a baby suckling at his breast, an image right out of a Renaissance painting, Madonna and child.

That was it. I had snapped, I guess you could say. All those years of repressed desires that had been awoken during the Powderpuff game now burst free and I became consumed with the desire to fit Josh with his own set of breasts and reshape him into the woman of my dreams.  I thought about how he’d vamped, playing the drunk chick. He wants it as much as I do, I told myself. He needs it as much as I do. Josh wants to be a woman.

Did he? I don’t know anymore. I think--- well, he’s living as a woman now, so maybe it doesn’t matter, does it? Back then, I have to say I’m not sure I was thinking rationally. Once I had picture that picture in my mind of Josh with his own bouncy breasts, I couldn’t think of him any other way.

Day after day, when I saw Josh around the house doing whatever mundane thing—reaching up to get a bowl from the cupboard, walking to the living room-- I would fantasize about him doing it with his own burgeoning breasts, with curvy hips and a plump ass. I loved to imagine him putting on a bra or having to sit down to pee. It was when he was at his most “guy mode” that I loved to imagine him as a girl the best. He’d be watching football, grunting and shouting like an ape, and I’d imagine him smiling, pretty, wearing a Taylor Swift Jersey and talking like a girl, speaking in a sweet, breathy voice. Instead of shouting, he’d just be like, “Omigod, I hope the Chiefs win. It would be so fun.”

The images wouldn’t go away. I imagined him in iconic female roles-- a yoga instructor, a secretary. I imagined him posing in a bikini for Sports Illustrated or working as a cam girl.

Most of all, though, and growing in power and frequency, was a fantasy where he was my adoring and perfectly domesticated traditional wife.

 It was all about the breasts in the end. In every fantasy, he had his own pair of big, bouncy, jiggling breasts. I loved to picture him walking with a huge rack swaying side to side or picture him in the shower, water and suds lathered up on his tits. I loved imagining a future in which he had to wear a bra, seeing him put one on, listening to him talk about his backaches, the straps digging into his shoulders. I loved to think of him walking in the grocery store, putting up with the stares of all the men as they ogled his boobs.

I tried to fight it, to tell myself it was impossible, just a dream. Those feelings of guilt and shame would come back. I’d tell myself I was a freak, that I needed therapy. I wondered what my parents must have done to make me like that, cursed the universe because I wasn’t like the other girls.

One day I sat down at the computer and typed in “how do I feminize my husband.” There were, much to my surprise, a LOT of hits, a lot of women writing about strategies to feminize their husbands. It turns out, I wasn’t the weird loner I thought. There were more of us out there, and it excited and relieved me to know that about myself. I scrolled through the threads on various discussion boards, looked over previews of books. I blushed, got hot reading about women who’d done what I’d dreamt of doing. They bought their husband a pair of women’s jeans without telling him. They bought parallel outfits so their husbands found themselves dressing in outfits that matched their wives, starting masculine adjacent. It surprised me how many guys seemed to rely upon the women in their lives to choose their clothes.

I bought Josh’s clothes. He had terrible taste. Could I start buying women’s jeans for him, girls’ tops, boyfriend shorts? He’d be crossdressing and not even know it. Omigod. I loved the idea.

Once they’d gotten their men wearing women’s clothes they would progress to getting them to do traditionally feminine things like using lotion to keep their skin soft and bright, taking yoga classes. They would get them to read chick lit.

And they would eventually begin changing their bodies.

Some of them had posted pictures of their feminized husbands. They looked like women, attractive, smiling women with makeup and long hair. I pushed my hand between my legs, rubbing, imagining Josh like that, looking prettier than me. Scrolling through the pics, I came upon one labelled “My Husband the Debutante.”  There was a picture of her husband, though he now looked like a smiling, fresh-faced young woman in a ball gown with dangling earrings, flowers in his hair.  She’d taken her husband off to Europe and transformed him there far from the eyes of their friends and family. When they’d come back, she’d invited everyone they knew to a party and re-introduced him to the world as Isabella.

Oh, my God. I was getting so many ideas of what I could do with Josh. Europe was out of the question. I didn’t have that kind of money. But a debutante ball for him? Well, a girl could dream.

Reading about hormones and testosterone blockers, I came right there at the computer, biting my lip, stifling my cries of ecstasy as I imagined slipping hormones into Joshie’s drinks and food, watching his chest bud and then blossom, firm little bouncy breasts, his first training bra. Panting, squeezing one breast while clenching my knees together, I clicked and buzzed and then—what was this?

I came across a reference to SNIPS.

To be continued…